2023 Trips
Birthday Trip 2023: Days Seven Through Eleven
Tuesday, June 6th, 2023: 2023 Trips, Colorado Plateau, Great Basin, Mojave Desert, Regions, Road Trips.
Day Seven
I woke Wednesday from a blissful dream, there in my motel bed. It was time to start heading southwest toward the California desert, but after nearly a week in the hinterlands I had some chores to take care of in town: a little shopping, and washing my clothes and vehicle, which was coated with powder sand inside and out. I had a two-day drive ahead of me, following a familiar route. The next night would be spent in another cheap motel in an even smaller town, where there was a laundromat but no car wash. So this morning I decided to make use of the guest laundry here and a car wash nearby.
Afterwards, departing through the old downtown around lunchtime, I remembered there was a Greek restaurant on a block I’d just passed, so I did a quick U-turn, and there it was. So I had an unexpected giro plate to fortify me for the long drive into Nevada.
Ninety minutes south on a two-lane, where I had a choice between a 6-1/2 hour drive on back roads or a 5-1/2 hour drive with the first half on interstate. I knew the back roads would be beautiful, but the interstate would actually be pretty too, and saving an hour was worth it.
While driving, I pondered my trip planning so far. Why do I focus these trips on prehistoric rock writing and paintings? When I resumed my Utah trips in 2008, it was nostalgic, to pick up a thread Katie and I had started in the mid-80s. We used petroglyph images on our band posters, and we both made art either based on petroglyphs or inspired by them.
After 2008 I learned more about the “Fremont” culture to which much of the work is attributed. I came to admire them and my Utah trips became a way to learn more and get closer to that culture.
But the only sites I could learn about remotely – mainly online – were located near or on roads. I’d already visited all the well-known sites, so to find new sites I was forced to spend more and more time driving slowly on bad back roads, competing with other off-road vehicle traffic, and ending up in overgrazed ranchland where campsites were generally poor and I didn’t want to linger.
Throughout this trip my body had craved more hiking, but there were few if any trails or suitable terrain near the prehistoric sites. I finally realized that this “rock art” exploration is just one more complication I need to shrug off as my already overcomplicated life hurtles toward its end. Near the beginning of this trip I’d passed a high plateau with federally designated wilderness which offers a whole network of interesting hikes – that should be my focus in the future. Drive to a wilderness area with good trails, camp there, and start exploring on foot.
Some wet weather was developing ahead as I joined a second interstate and turned south. Finally I reached the turnoff for the back road that led west to Nevada. That’s when things in the sky really got interesting! I drove under a storm that, once I emerged on the other side, produced the most spectacular cloud formation I’ve ever seen.
In the little railroad town where I stopped for the night, I was trying out a newly restored motel that had opened since my last visit. The lady owner had a big placard on the counter with a quote from Reagan on the sanctity of gun ownership, but she was nice, and the small room had the best bed I’ve ever found in any hotel or motel anywhere – even in expensive resorts.
Day Eight
My friend in California had promised a campsite for the next night, and the Nevada town has a wonderful grocery store, so I grabbed a few more things I thought I might need. There were two Harley riders about my age outside, and one asked me if I was heading out into the hills. We had a brief, friendly conversation, wished each other well, and as I was pulling away I heard him say to his companion, “That’s the kind of guy I like – he doesn’t talk your ear off when you try to be friendly.”
I continued south through familiar, spectacular Great Basin country, deciding to avoid the interstate again by way of Lake Mead. This is one of the world’s most spectacular landscapes – as amazing as the Grand Canyon or Yosemite, but off most people’s radar since it’s labeled with the name of a reservoir. Normally you have to pay the park entrance fee to use this “interstate bypass” route, but the toll booths were closed and I traversed it scott free.
Midway through the recreation area I realized I was probably running late. And the last part of my drive was the hottest and featured long steep grades, where my vehicle is underpowered even without the A/C on. So I had to drive at high revs in lower gear, burning gas like crazy, for the last hour and a half down the eastern edge of California, to save time while staying cool.
I pulled up outside our meeting place, the tribe’s new resort hotel, at exactly the same time as my friend. We had a delicious supper, then he guided me to some nearby campsites which should be secluded and pleasant.
They involved driving across a broad wash in soft sand, so I switched into 4wd. I found the first site, on the lake, but as soon as I turned off the engine and got out, I heard buzzing overhead – a drone, flying circles above me. Then it took off north, and I walked toward the water’s edge, rounding a corner in dense vegetation and revealing an old guy with a long gray beard, sitting in a folding chair next to his side-by-side. “That’s not your drone, is it?” I asked.
“Sure is,” he said, nodding. So much for this campsite.
My friend’s second choice was above, on fingers of the mesa that overlooked the lake. I drove back and found a maze of off-road tracks leading up there, also in soft sand. I was afraid of getting bogged down, but the sun had set and I needed a shower, so I bounced upward, and followed a track outward to a point which would’ve made a good campsite, if it hadn’t directly overlooked the old guy with the drone.
So I turned back and drove inland, higher up the mesa, until I found a sort of hollow with enough level ground to set up camp. I laid out my tarp, pad, and sleeping bag and took a quick shower. The moon was now at three-quarters full and Venus was still up in the west, and the lights of the city across the lake twinkled like the campfires of a barbarian horde. I thought I would be okay here, but it was still hot, so I sat for a while enjoying the view.
Finally I laid down on top of my bag. Bugs started to land on me, so I got up and grabbed a flashlight. They were nothing to worry about, but they were annoying.
Then I heard some small dogs barking farther down the mesa. They got closer. And closer, until they were a hundred feet or less away. They were barking at me, but I still couldn’t see them.
I got up and found a stick. I didn’t feel comfortable lying down while surrounded by wild dogs, but I didn’t want to be driven off by them either.
Then headlights flashed out below me, and a four-seater side-by-side bounced up on the mesa, full of shouting, laughing teenagers. It was 10:30 pm, but I knew this was graduation time. The teenagers drove around me in a semi-circle, unaware I was even there, stopping and yelling at various points in the creosote brush. This was the last straw.
I packed up and drove back across the rez to the hotel. My friend had reserved a room for me the following night, but I was able to check in early, and finally got to sleep by midnight. So much for my camping trip!
Day Nine
One problem with a true hotel, as opposed to a true motel, is that they don’t have fridges or microwaves in the rooms. You’re supposed to eat in the restaurant. And rooms are accessed inside, a long walk from your vehicle. I carry my breakfast stuff and the huge variety of personal care items I need every day, in several containers including a cooler, for easy access from the vehicle or in camp. When I check into a motel, I park in front of my room and it’s easy to transfer those things inside.
The tribal hotel room was really nice, but I had to make three long trips to and from my vehicle to get everything I needed to stay there. And for breakfast, I had to make the complicated journey to and from the vehicle to get and return yogurt and fruit from the cooler, since there was no place to keep it cool in the room.
The outside temperature at the lake today was forecast to reach 97, with tomorrow hitting 100. According to experts, the inside of a car can reach over 140 degrees at times like this. There were some things in my vehicle that were going to get ruined – no way around it. I had two bags of organic chips – the unopened one was turned rancid by the heat, while the other was fine. For future hot-weather trips, I should probably move some packaged foods, oils, skin creams, etc. to the cooler. And bring an extra bag to carry stuff into hotels!
The tribal festival was scheduled to start today, but when I drove past the park there was no one there yet. My friend called later, and we met at the empty park, where he introduced me to his son and nephew. The three of us had a great afternoon visit at a shaded picnic table there on the lakeshore. My friend’s son found a devil’s claw seedpod under a palm tree, and showed me how to extract the edible seeds, like sunflower but nuttier.
Day Ten
I felt like undeserving royalty staying in that fancy hotel. My friend came and picked me up the next morning for a tour around the reservation, talking about projects he’d accomplished or was planning. The festival had started and the park was packed, but when he drove in, there was a Highway Patrol SUV blocking the entrance and an ambulance flashing its lights inside. So he turned around, and we had a last lunch at the hotel.
I wanted to get an early start and make it to Flagstaff tonight, to shorten my drive home tomorrow. That meant hours on the interstate. But from Kingman east, the federal highway surface had deteriorated worse than any paved road I’ve ever driven on. There were irregular patches of pavement missing, to a depth of three or four inches, in the right lane, and everyone including big rigs was driving on the left, which was marginally better. These mega-potholes were big enough to cause an accident, to blow a tire or break your suspension! Fortunately my vehicle is rugged, but the stiff springs meant I got constantly bashed and slammed whenever I had to pull into the right lane.
It was like that all the way to Flagstaff, and beyond, the next day.
Day Eleven
A couple more errands to run in Flagstaff, then I was on my way east again by late morning. Winslow has an old Harvey House that’s been restored and turned into a hotel, so I decided to stop there for lunch. It was a fantastic place, but mostly empty at midday on Sunday.
And Winslow, where I’ve only stopped briefly before, is full of old Route 66 motels which have been turned into small apartment complexes. Who lives there?
Mercifully, I was able to leave the interstate soon, at Holbrook, and head southeast through some of my favorite country – a high, rolling sagebrush plateau where I was able to let my thoughts wander back over the trip again.
I mentioned in my canyon campsite that I relish being able to sleep outdoors. But on this trip like on most others, I had a hard time finding suitable campsites, and once settled, encountered serious problems. Heat, cold, wind, insects, intrusive strangers, their pets and devices. In the past the list included rain, snow, flies, mosquitos, and flooding. On this trip I noticed a few flies and mosquitos, but thankfully they hadn’t been a problem.
I’ve researched and considered solutions to some of those challenges but haven’t fully succeeded. One recurring problem is how to find secluded campsites for someone who sleeps on the ground. The only real solution is advance scouting, which is hard when you live a day or two’s drive away!
Other challenges are the distances between stops, towns, and campsites, and the condition of roads. It’s no fun to set up camp and try to cook dinner after you’ve driven six hours or more.
I’m always friendly & curious with local people, but I never stay long enough or immerse myself in local society enough to get to know the people I might need if I get in trouble. That feels insensitive, and limits the amount of local knowledge I get – for example about little-known prehistoric sites. Finding stuff online, or even in books, is really no substitute for local knowledge.
More weather was developing over the Southwest. I drove through light storms all the way, and actually drove into a dust devil west of town – it felt like the whole car was being twisted by a wrench.
Finally, a few miles from home, I was welcomed by a double rainbow, and it started raining just as I pulled in the driveway, turned off the vehicle and got out.
Valley at the End of the World
Monday, October 2nd, 2023: 2023 Trips, Mogollon Rim, Regions, Road Trips.
There’s a large, mountainous area near here that I drive past regularly, on our loneliest regional highway, on long trips to other places – yet for seventeen years it’s remained a mystery.
The area encompasses 1,200 square miles, all within national forests, and is so rugged that it contains virtually no level ground. I knew it has a named mountain range, but from outside, it’s impossible to distinguish that from other, better known mountains. Landforms intrigue me and it really rankled that I couldn’t figure out the topography of this region.
From maps, I could see it contains a river, but the canyon or valley of that river can’t be seen from outside and would take hours to reach on dirt roads. The same maps show a network of hiking trails crisscrossing most of the area, and I’d tried two of those trails on the far east side closest to my home. One was abandoned and lined with sharp rocks, the other was abandoned and heavily used by cattle.
I’d avoided exploring this area because, in addition to being overrun with cattle, I’d assumed most of it was below 8,000 feet elevation and hence less interesting than the surrounding higher mountains. But this Sunday I needed to give my problem foot a rest, and the weather was forecast to be mild, so I decided to explore the unknown land by vehicle.
The unknown land can only be reached by vehicle from the north or east, on one of four dirt roads that are rocky and require high clearance. The road nearest to home enters from the east, winding and climbing up and down through tall, parklike ponderosa forest at an average elevation of 6,500 feet. It took me a half hour to go six miles, where I reached the first milestone, a trailhead and campground. Whereas on my previous short forays on this road, I’d found every turnout occupied by a huge RV trailer, today the whole area was unoccupied.
When I stepped out of the vehicle at the trailhead, the wind almost blew me over, and I had to close the windows to keep blowing dust out. We hadn’t had wind like this since last spring – the tops of the pines were thrashing and roaring like a freight train.
In contrast with trails in my well-publicized local mountains, where a majority of visitors come from places like New York and California, the vast majority of the visitors listed on this trailhead log were from Arizona and New Mexico. I’d gotten a late start and ate a typical hiking lunch, sitting on a log in the shade. Apart from the wind, the temperature was perfect, and forecast to be mild all day.
As I drove away, a Forest Service ranger arrived in a maintenance vehicle – the only other vehicle I met on that road all day.
My next destination was a cliff dwelling which is marked, surprisingly, on Google Maps, another six miles up the road. Past the forested campground, the road climbed, and climbed, and climbed, becoming rockier and rockier, emerging from the ponderosa forest onto steep slopes dotted with shrubs and junipers, with fortress-like bluffs of volcanic conglomerate looming high above. I got a panoramic view of lower ridges and canyons to the south, and I kept scanning the cliffs above, seeing many caves but no cliff dwellings. So I zoomed in and took photos, hoping to spot the cliff dwellings later, when I had a chance to blow up the photos at home. Guess I should pack field glasses in my vehicle!
The road topped out on a knife-edge saddle with the most spectacular views I’ve seen from any road in this region. Above was the stone rampart, on the west was the deep canyon of the next watershed, and beyond the lower country in the southeast rose my familiar home mountains. I was forming my first mental map of this unknown land, and unexpectedly, I was impressed.
Past the saddle, the road wound down into the next watershed, becoming rockier and slower. It entered more pine forest, crossed the head of the new canyon, and climbed again onto a forested plateau between mountains on the north and south. Here I crossed the state line, met one of the dirt roads coming in from the north, and reached a second trailhead. The log at this one recorded mostly visitors from Phoenix or Tucson – a five-and-a-half hour drive away. My friends tend to dismiss Phoenix as a hotbed of ecological abuse, but I’ve learned that the sprawling, water-wasting megalopolis is actually full of nature-loving outdoor enthusiasts, with fantastic landscapes like the Superstition Mountains nearby. How had they found out about this remote, poorly-publicized area far to their east?
At the western end of the plateau I began my descent into the remote valley of the obscure river. The road became really vertiginous, with a dropoff of hundreds of feet, until I eventually reached a precarious wide spot to pull over and study the view. This was the hidden valley I’d wondered about for years!
I was surprised to spot isolated homes and ranches scattered throughout the darkly forested landscape, but I couldn’t see a floodplain – it seemed to be all steep ridges and deep canyons, and on the far side, the 9,000 foot rim of the alpine plateau I knew and loved from many previous trips. This valley had remained hidden from that high plateau.
At the bottom, the road passed a very funky compound, strewn with rundown buildings and dusty vehicles, and immediately forded the shallow river. Then on the other side sprawled a big, well-tended pasture with the kind of modern, upscale ranchhouse you see throughout rural Arizona.
The road wound down the valley, crossing and re-crossing the river, beneath a lush canopy bordered by sheer, dark volcanic cliffs. Homes and ranches were sparse, separated by long stretches of dense riparian forest, and the construction varied between traditional working ranches, funky weathered cabins, and what appeared to be the occasional modest vacation home. Most rural settlements in Arizona are very affluent compared to New Mexico – I hadn’t seen this kind of diversity elsewhere. The fact that the valley is populated at all was an unexpected revelation.
The river road dead-ends about fifteen miles downstream. I drove most of the way, checking out remote trailheads I’d always wondered about. Most of them seem to be used by equestrians, many of which are probably hunters living in towns a few hours away.
The wind was still roaring, and when the road occasionally climbed high above the river I could see it sweeping in waves across the billowing canopy of narrowleaf cottonwoods. Cumulus clouds were forming and I was wondering if I’d have to drive that marginal dirt road in the rain later. I also wondered where these people do their shopping. After checking the map I discovered the nearest gas is over an hour away, on another of these slow, rocky, high-clearance dirt roads. The nearest small town, with shopping, is an hour and a half. And this river must flood regularly, stranding residents from each other and the outside world for days, maybe even weeks at a time in a wet year.
I turned back north when the road became gnarlier, and pulled off at one of the trailheads I’d long wanted to explore. The trail started steep – bad for my foot – and was badly eroded, lined with sharp rocks, and used only by equestrians, so it was also deeply pitted. I only went about a half mile, far enough to climb several hundred feet above the river, to a saddle with partial views east and south.
I’d hoped to explore the upper valley, but my time was running out. I was also curious about the road that accesses the valley from the northeast, the road I’d passed up on the plateau. In fifteen miles, it climbs over the shoulder of a 9,000 foot peak and might offer more spectacular views. The extra distance meant I probably wouldn’t get home until after 7 pm.
I’d passed a total of four vehicles in the valley, but there was still no one on the upper roads, despite it being a weekend. The northeast road climbed gently through parklike ponderosa forest, then steeply up a ridge. I could tell there was an amazing view south, but only found one small break in the trees. Then the road turned down again into a hidden interior valley, and finally began climbing a long, narrow canyon that I believed led towards the high peak.
The habitat in this canyon was completely different – moist, and lined with a pure, dense stand of tall firs, with seedlings bordering the road. The wind was still roaring overhead, and I came to a fallen tree blocking the road. Why hadn’t I thought of this – blithely driving through forest in high wind?
Only six inches in diameter, the tree turned out to be easy to swivel to the side. But then the road entered a burn scar, and I came to tree after tree I had to move off the road. When would I reach one I couldn’t move?
That happened shortly afterward. A tree had fallen from a high bank so that it was wedged in place across the road. I couldn’t budge it by hand, and what if an even bigger one lay beyond? I had to turn back, and retrace my morning’s path on the slow eastern road.
Just before reaching the east-west road, I encountered a 4wd flatbed truck on big tires, with two guys in the cab. I waved them down and warned them about the fallen tree, but they were only going a short ways up the road and weren’t worried. After talking to them, I remembered I had heavy duty nylon straps in the back and might’ve been able to pull the fallen tree out of the way with my vehicle. Or not – there was still the likelihood of more, and the time wasted doing road work instead of driving home.
Of course, with the wind, the clouds, and the setting sun, the landscape just kept getting more beautiful. That eastern road into the valley has to be the most beautiful road in this entire region. In the words of the Governator, I’ll be back.
In the end, it took me six hours to drive 71 miles on those dirt roads, for an average of 12 mph. I ended up driving a total of nine and a half hours and got home in the dark exhausted, starving, and in pain.
If you wanted to escape civilization, that hidden valley might be your best option in the American Southwest. No, it’s not wilderness, and you’d have a motley collection of neighbors. But there’s plenty of water for living and gardening, wild birds and other game love riparian corridors like that, and the bad roads and flooding keep out the riffraff. And the whole area is far more spectacular than I’d ever imagined – truly a hidden gem.
Monday, October 16th, 2023: 2023 Trips, Road Trips.
The Hotel
I had to make a sudden, unplanned three-hour drive to Tucson for a medical exam. It took me a while to get ready, so I decided to stay overnight and hit the medical center the next morning.
Tucson is one of my long-time waystations. Its low-rise sprawl spans the huge basin below the 9,000 foot Santa Catalina mountains. I’ve visited most parts of that sprawl, from the airport in the far south (my favorite in the U.S.), to a friend’s house on Sabino Creek in the far east, to REI and Whole Foods in the far northwest, to the Sonoran Desert Museum (actually a zoo) just west of the city. My first-ever visit, more than 20 years ago, was downtown, to hipster hangout Hotel Congress. I stayed there twice, danced at the nightclub, and ate at the cafe dozens of times, beginning in 2006, as I commuted from New Mexico to San Diego on my longest-lasting tech industry contract.
So I know the city pretty well and have a few favorite places. One of those is the Reid Park DoubleTree hotel. I stayed there first in 2008, fifteen years ago. Reid Park, about four miles east of downtown, is dominated by a golf course, and the hotel is an affordable midscale resort and conference center. Many people say it’s in the middle of nowhere, but I routinely shop in that area, and there’s a wide variety of restaurants nearby. Like every Western city, Tucson has the full spectrum from cheap motels to trendy boutique hotels and luxury resorts. I’ve tried all extremes, but prefer the comfortable, unpretentious DoubleTree.
I last stayed there in 2018, and the place seems to be struggling in the wake of COVID. Their low occupancy rates can no longer sustain a restaurant – they serve breakfast, and a lobby bar features a limited food menu. But the staff is still friendly, the grounds are still clean, and the rooms are still being regularly renovated. I’ve stayed in the tower before, with a great view of the mountains, but this time I got a cheaper courtyard room – with a private patio shaded by orange trees. At the lobby bar, I enjoyed my favorite local IPA and one of the best burgers of my life.
The Hospital
This was a bizarre, disorienting trip in which I drove three hours to check into a big-city hospital Emergency Department for tests I couldn’t get at home, tests which would otherwise require months of waiting for an appointment. After last year’s nightmare illness, I dreaded being inside a hospital again, and was half hoping they’d turn me away.
But the staff accepted my situation and went right to work. I saw one doctor after another, and the second said they would keep me overnight – something I was ready for but not happy about. Then I waited four hours for an MRI, had a complete neurological exam, and was discharged – they’d found nothing wrong – after a total of eight hours in the maze-like bowels of the hospital.
I booked another night in another DoubleTree courtyard room, enjoyed a salad in the bar, and early to bed.
The Eclipse
Wanting to at least do something fun in the city before heading home, I found the nearby U of A was hosting an eclipse event. Visitors were advised to park in the Cherry Street garage, which I found on Google Maps. I drove through campus on Cherry Street, less than ten minutes before the maximum, but the garage didn’t seem to exist, a big crowd was swarming over the parklike intersection, and there was no street parking.
At the same time, my Native American friend was urgently trying to reach me, and I couldn’t keep dismissing his calls. So I drove off campus and found a shaded spot in front of a house where two women were putting up Halloween decorations. Before calling, I turned my notebook into an eclipse viewer, punching a hole in a page with my ballpoint pen, held it out my car window, and saw the crescent – Tucson was getting the 80% version.
The Museum
After the call, it was almost time for the art museum to open. I’m a fan of regional art museums. In keeping with Latin culture, Tucson’s modest museum is built as an inward-facing courtyard, blank on the outside, incorporating historic adobe buildings along one side. Their permanent collection is poor, so temporary exhibitions are the draw. A sort of smaller, inverted, rectilinear Guggenheim, the building starts at street level and spirals underground.
I spent two hours there, longer than ever before, ending on the easily-overlooked upper floor, which hides, like an afterthought, a disappointing selection of modern art. There I found an Alexander Calder print featuring a spiral. He’d made a belt buckle with a silver version of that same spiral, and in high school, as a friend of the family, I made a belt for it.
Finding my way out, I hoped to eat at the busy cafe. But I was starving and it was all light fare.
The Restaurant
A few blocks up the street is a Mexican dinner house I’d tried before. When I travel from my small town to the big city, I have no interest in sushi, Thai, or any of the other exotic cuisines city people favor. Mexican food at home is so limited, all I’m interested in is better Mexican food.
The hostess put me in the far corner at the window, which was fine with me. But right next to me was an enclosed stone staircase leading to a dark cellar, and my waiter, a young gay man with bleached hair, said if the goblin bothered me, I should just toss it some chips.
Sunday, November 19th, 2023: 2023 Trips, Mogollon Rim, Regions, Road Trips.
Suffering from burnout, I needed to get away from the problems that surround me at home. My favorite mountain getaway over in Arizona would be cold, but as a result, the cheap motel would have vacancies. I could hike in the daytime, and in the evenings I could get restaurant meals – something I never get at home since we lost all our decent restaurants during COVID. Normally the only time I eat out is during my semi-annual visits with family back east.
The weather up there was forecast to be dry. But as I drove north the sky was full of towering cumulus clouds, past the halfway point it got positively threatening, and I hit rain in the high passes. It was cold enough that I switched into 4wd to keep from spinning off into a cliff or a canyon.
By the time I reached the motel, it was almost full dark and the office was closed. My room was unlocked, but when I opened the door a heavy wave of artificial fragrance poured out. Entering, I sniffed the bed, but it smelled fine. The odor simply filled the air, and I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It was too cold to air out the room, so I drove to the restaurant for dinner – which included one of the best malbecs I’ve ever had.
When I returned, my allergies were triggered by the odor, and I discovered I’d forgotten my antihistamine and nasal spray – something I can’t remember ever doing before. I faced a night of no relief in this very remote place.
Adding insult to injury, I soon had a headache, and the normally complete and peaceful silence was disturbed by a rhythmic screeching noise, like an unoiled pump. I couldn’t figure out where that was coming from, either. I was exhausted enough to fall asleep, but I woke a few hours later and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning.
In the morning, the sky was perfectly blue and everything outside was covered in a thick layer of frost. I walked over to the office and found they open an hour later in winter. In the meantime, I would drive the 20 minutes to the nearest supermarket for antihistamine.
But by the time I got dressed for the drive, the sky was completely covered by low clouds and it was snowing!
The drive wasn’t wasted, though. I was rewarded with multiple rainbows and sightings of the bighorn sheep that were introduced here decades ago, frequenting the shallow canyons that wind through this volcanic alpine plateau.
When I returned to the motel office I met the new owners. The couple looked and sounded like urban hipsters in their late 40s or early 50s, and I guessed they’d seen this place on visits from Phoenix over the years, and decided to relocate and invest in a modest resort, planning to renovate and increase the rates for more profit.
In any event, they seemed shocked when I told them the fragrance was a problem. They said they’d installed devices in all the rooms that emit fragrance continually. I know I’m not the only person bothered by artificial fragrance – every supermarket carries fragrance-free and hypoallergenic products – but we seem to be an aberration in Arizona. They were anxious to help, though – they said I could simply search the electrical outlets to find the device, unplug it and air out the room. They said the screeching sound was probably the well pump, in a shed outside the motel, and I suggested it might need lubricating.
Tuesday, November 21st, 2023: 2023 Trips, Baldy, Hikes, Mogollon Rim, Regions, Road Trips, Southeast Arizona, Whites.
I woke up Monday to dense fog and a dusting of snow here at 8,400′. The temperature was 27 and forecast to reach 37. I hadn’t hiked yesterday – in fact, I hadn’t had a good hike in three weeks, partly because my foot condition had returned after five years pain-free. Despite the weather, I was determined to get out into this spectacular alpine landscape.
I knew there’d be more snow at higher elevations – my favorite hike reaches 11,200′. The highway to the trailhead is closed in winter, and the shortcut from town to the highway is a steep and narrow dirt road. I decided to do a lower-elevation canyon hike I’d started once but never finished.
But I packed my winter gear, and shortly after leaving the motel, I saw the turnoff for the dirt shortcut, and swerved into it. I’d never hiked in these mountains in snow before, so I just had to try it!
I found an untracked inch of snow on the dirt road, up to 9,000′, where the highway had 2 inches. Snow was falling lightly, and the direction I was going had been plowed earlier. I was in 4wd and braked to test the traction before continuing.
When I reached the trailhead parking lot, it was untracked, but as I pulled on my pack and insulated Goretex gloves and started off, I heard an engine. It was the snowplow, returning to clear the highway in the opposite direction.
The trailhead is 9,400′, so I knew the temperature had to be in the low 20s. The only tracks in this fresh snow were from animals – elk, fox, cottontail, squirrel, something smaller.
The first mile and a half skirts the long meadows and bogs that cover the level ground on this volcanic plateau, passing in and out of small stands of spruce-fir forest. This was the first time I could remember seeing the meadows in their winter colors.
The first couple of miles of this trail see a lot of traffic in warmer weather, and I stumbled a lot because the snow hid irregularities like rocks, erosional ruts, and footprints in frozen mud. It would be even worse in deeper snow at higher elevations. My goal was at least to reach the spectacular viewpoint on the ridgetop. I was moving slow and making a lot of stops to enjoy a landscape renewed by snow.
When I reached the last clear stretch before entering the main forest, I could see what the snow was doing to the rock formations. I was in for a real treat!
The trail climbs about 3/4 mile through magical old-growth alpine forest before reaching the cliffs. Almost every aspen I passed had someone’s initials in its bark, but in this snow, silence, and solitude I was truly a pioneer.
Many of these photos appear to be black-and-white – but they were all taken in color!
At the foot of the cliffs, the trail switches back to traverse to the ridgetop. This is one of the most spectacular stretches of forest I’ve ever found, and as with everything else, the snow made it new.
I knew the overlook would be socked in with fog, but who cared? The snow up here at 10,200′ ranged from 3-5 inches deep, easily walkable without needing my gaiters. But the undulating bedrock surfaces had been smoothed over by snow, so I had to take special care in climbing to the edge of the cliff.
Having made it this far, I wanted to at least reach the second mass of exposed rock, about a mile farther up the ridge. That turned out to be a slow mile, with traverses of steep slopes where I could easily lose my footing and slide hundreds of feet down the mountain.
After arriving, I was especially wary of crossing this outcrop, since the route is unclear and the footing precarious even when clear of snow. But I carefully made it across, and with most of the day left, decided to keep going.
Past that last outcrop, it’s all alpine forest to the crest of the mountain. I would just keep going until I figured it was time to turn back.
But shortly after entering the forest I came to blowdown across the trail. I knew some of it had been there on my last visit, two years ago in August, and at first it was easy to step over. But I ran into more, and much worse, ahead. To avoid sliding off snow-covered logs, I ended up having to make long zigzagging detours.
After bypassing dozens of these fallen logs, I finally reached the edge of a burn scar. My time was almost up, and the burn scar would allow me to log a GPS waypoint so I would know how far I’d gone.
I hadn’t reached the crest, but I knew I’d gone almost five miles. In snow, that’s worth 50% more! And what a place! I can think of few places that would be as magical in snow.
The fog was lifting, so when I reached the viewpoint I could see past the cloud cover to the center of the plateau, with a sliver of blue sky.
I was wearing my winter boots, which offer maximum support. But on the way down, I could tell I’d done more damage to my foot. Only time will tell if I’ll be able to resume hiking this winter.
When I checked the map back in the room, I found I’d reached 10,600′. And by morning the weather had cleared, so while taking the long way home east across the plateau, I stopped for a view of the mountain I’d partially climbed.
